Harry Potter and the Legacy of Hate
by DarthMittens
Summary: Roger Welles has no memories from before an accident three years ago, but has been plugging away at his successful sales job even if it didn't feel right. His world is turned upside down when he meets two people who seem to know him and is dragged back into a war he had forgotten. A war that he's told should have been ended by him three years prior. As always, H/HR. WIP.


CHAPTER 1 - THE FAMILIAR ECHOES OF A FORGOTTEN PAST

A soft wind rustled dead leaves overhead, parting them from the one and only home they had ever known so they could float to the ground below, where they would be stepped on and ground into so many fine pieces of leaf. It was a wind that brought to mind images of icicles, snow, and rosy cheeks as it ate away at the last of the warmth of autumn and heralded the incoming chill of winter that would drive the children to frozen-over ponds for ice-skating and hockey. And although the wind was soft, it was also a sharp, biting wind that prompted Roger Welles to pull the collar of his coat over his scarf, and his scarf over his nose and mouth.

It was the wind of a typical New York winter morning.

Having been forced to park on the other side of the suburban street he lived on to avoid receiving a street sweeping ticket, Roger hurried to his car as quickly as he could without looking silly. Not that it mattered much. Most of his neighbors already thought he was a bit silly, living in a 3-bedroom house in a family-friendly suburban area despite not having a family of his own. He didn't even have a girlfriend, in fact. He didn't care if they thought he was silly for that, though — he enjoyed the luxury of living in a home, surrounded by quiet, peaceful neighbors. He didn't remember too much from before the accident three years ago; all he could recall were vague images of a life that had been a hassle — the vestiges of his memories were loud and hectic and exhausting.

He knew he had earned some peace and quiet, which was why he was half-jogging through a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs instead of squeezing into a too-small New York apartment building elevator backgrounded by the noise of car horns, pedestrians, and loud neighbors. He could bear being thought of as silly if it meant not having to live in a constant cacophony.

After what seemed like crossing over an endless tundra (why were street sweeping days always so damn cold?), Roger finally wrenched open his car door with nearly-frozen fingers, tossed his briefcase over the center console and hopped into the driver's seat. He turned the car on before doing anything else — he was desperate to get his seat heater warming up — then buckled in and started his drive into the city. Slowly, the tree-lined roads, tidy fences, and large family houses gave way to the city's shop-packed streets, foliage-free sidewalks, and sky-scraping high-rises.

Roger didn't hate the city (he worked in it, after all), but as he passed graffiti-covered walls and small shelters the homeless had set up on the sidewalks, he became increasingly grateful that he could afford to live in such a nice neighborhood. Something also just felt _right_ about living in a suburb — he felt at home there. He figured he must have lived in one when he was younger — in his head he always imagined a quiet neighborhood in Vermont — and wished he could remember enough about his past to look up that information, for curiosity's sake.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he finally hit traffic relatively deep into the city. He glanced at the clock in his dashboard and gave a small sound of surprise when he saw that he still had more than an hour before his work day started.. He was normally rushing to get to work on time, but his commute had been relatively traffic-free. A good start to the day.

After parking in his reserved spot in the company parking structure, Roger took the extra half-hour he suddenly found on his hands to get a good coffee from the small shop down the street instead of drinking the bland coffee that he knew was waiting for him in the break room. He had become a coffee drinker because he felt like he needed it to be fully-functional throughout the day, but despite drinking it for three years now, he still wasn't a fan of it. Everyone kept telling him it was an acquired taste, so he thought he would like it by now, but there was still something off about it after all this time, and he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what.

He ordered a peppermint coffee to help with the taste, and as he walked the block back to his office, he found himself admiring the Christmas decorations adorning the various storefronts. He loved the holiday season, and the Christmas spirit never failed to warm his heart and mood for the month of December.

Having been lost in thought for a second too long as he eyed a particularly tasteful garland, he suddenly bumped into someone, gasping as he nearly spilled his coffee all over the poor woman.

"I'm so sorry," Roger sputtered immediately, his face growing red. The woman was standing at a crosswalk along with a sizeable group and he had simply walked right into her. It had been entirely his fault.

The woman's long brown hair whipped around with her as she turned quickly, her mouth set in an angry line. She glared at him for a second, maybe two, and her eyes glanced up at his scar, which Roger had learned to expect from everybody he met by this point. An unreadable emotion flashed in her face, and the hard look in her eyes softened. Then her eyes were full of what Roger could have sworn was recognition, and his hopes swelled for a brief moment.

He inspected every square inch of her face in case she triggered any of his shrouded memories. She had cold but honest brown eyes, impossibly high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. Her makeup was immaculate and highlighted her best features, giving her the appearance of a model. On top of it all, her confidence was so intense it was nearly tangible. Roger could tell that this woman not only knew how attractive she was, she also knew how to use it to her advantage.

Nothing about her face rang any bells in his head, and he felt a small tinge of disappointment. He should have known better than to think that a random woman he bumped into on the streets of New York would know who he was, and he was upset that he had gotten his hopes up.

The woman's long eyelashes fluttered closed a couple times, then the corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. Despite how busy the street and sidewalk were, the woman glanced around as if to check that it was just the two of them alone and leaned in close. Roger could just faintly smell the woman's perfume, a hint of citrus tickling at his senses. The scent was intoxicating.

"Oh, think nothing of it," the woman said, smiling. Roger was surprised to hear a British accent as she spoke, which slightly disappointed him — she was most likely a tourist. He decided then and there, though, that he wanted to get to know her better, even if she wasn't going to be in the city for too long. "No harm, no foul."

"An American idiom," Roger said, grinning, thinking quickly to keep her talking. "I'm impressed."

The woman blinked in surprise, then let out a lilting laugh. Roger felt a pleasurable tingle behind his ears — he was sure he had never made a woman as attractive as her laugh so earnestly before. It was a wondrous noise. "I've been in the country for quite some time now. I like the sounds of some of your sayings. Not a big fan of how you pronounce some of those words, though." She scrunched her nose dramatically, and Roger's heart skipped a beat.

Flustered, he tried his best to think of a good quip to make her laugh again, but his watch suddenly started beeping. The alarm reminding him that he had only had ten minutes to get to work wrested him from the woman's charm, and he uttered an appropriate exclamation.

"I...uh...well, I have to get to work," he said sheepishly. He wanted to ask for her number, but was finding it difficult to get the words out. He had never been terribly good at talking to women, especially women as beautiful as her, and he reluctantly began walking away from the woman, hoping he would somehow bump into her again.

She stopped him, though, and pulled out a pen and legal pad from her purse. She scribbled down her name and telephone number and handed the torn corner of the paper to him, winking as she did so. "Since you so obviously wanted it," she teased. "I'm free tonight, so make sure to give me a call before it gets too late."

Roger's ears got a bit hot, but he managed a, "Thank you, I'll make sure to do that," took the paper, and continued his trek toward the office. He pulled his cell phone out and keyed in her number immediately as he walked, wondering why she hadn't included her name.

Smiling as he put his phone back in his pocket, Roger couldn't help but optimistically think it was impossible for a work day to have a better start, and he hoped it was a sign of things to come, especially since he had a meeting with an important international military client later in the day. If he closed this deal, he knew a promotion was waiting for him. He could be the youngest VP of sales in company history, and by a few years at that. He didn't know exactly what about him his bosses loved so much, but there was clearly something, and more than once he had been told by his peers that the way he could intuitively navigate the business world was almost like magic.

As he walked into his work building, which was very modern and stylish on the inside and full of some of the hardest working people in New York, he bumped into his pal, Dick Horner. Dick was a couple years older than him, and had taken Roger under his wing when Roger had first started with the company, which was only a couple days after he had moved to New York. He and Dick had become fast friends and had risen through the company ranks together at a blazing pace, and they hung out and hit the town every Friday after work. Roger knew he would have never made it in New York if it wasn't for Dick, and was glad that they were such close friends.

"Hey, Horn-dog," Roger said, grinning, holding out his arms in their customary greeting.

Dick wrapped him up in a quick hug (2 hard pats then it was over, as per usual), smiled, and said, "Big day, Rodge, I'm rooting for ya. I'm going to be leaving early to pregame the Rangers-Bruins game with the boss-man — shoot me a text after and let me know how it went."

"I'll try to make sure it's good news. Watching the Rangers this season has been depressing."

Dick let out a loud laugh as he jabbed at the button for the elevator. "It isn't that bad when you're drunk as hell."

Roger laughed as the elevator dinged. Their sports talk continued through the elevator ride and into the office, and when they reached Roger's office, Roger wished his friend a good time at the game, sat down in front of his computer, cracked his neck, stretched his fingers a bit, and settled in to work mode. Work mode was his zen place where he could forget about all his worries, such as the presentation he had looming over his head later that day. He would be better off he didn't have a nervous knot in his stomach all day.

The first half of the work day dragged on a bit as Roger answered emails and sat in meetings, but nothing bad happened (Debbie didn't even come into his office to gossip), which he considered a good sign going into his lunch break. If he could just keep the good vibes going, he knew he would knock his client meeting out of the park.

He felt so good, in fact, that he decided to treat himself for the second time that day. He walked a few blocks from the office and ate at the best italian place in the city, as far as he knew (from a lot of trial and error). Afterwards, he headed back to the office, whistling a merry tune to himself. The sun was out, the weather was just right, and the city had a positive energy that seemed to be permeating into Roger. He didn't think he had ever seen so many smiles as he walked through the city streets, as if the rest of the city was having just as good of a day as he was. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Therefore, it was with roaring confidence that he went into his big client presentation. A couple of his coworkers complimented him as he walked through the building, which only built him up some more. He paused outside of the meeting room doors and took 2 quick, deep breaths. His heartbeat remained steady, the looming pressure of the meeting bothering him as little as wind bothers a boulder, and he nodded to himself, satisfied.

He pushed open the doors and strode into the room, an open smile on his face, ready to deliver his prepared opening...only to find that he was alone in the room. He frowned and glanced at his watch, and his frown deepened as he saw that it was five minutes past the scheduled meeting time. He liked for clients to settle in and let their anticipation build a bit, and was a bit peeved that his careful strategy was already unraveling.

It wasn't the end of the world, though. He knew his pitch was solid, so he wasn't too worried, and decided that instead of being annoyed, it would be more productive to sit at the head of the table and take some deep breaths to remain collected. He did as he always did, taking deep breaths and thinking happy thoughts, such as hanging out with Dick, being at game 4 of the '99 NLDS, and other, vaguer moments — warmth blanketed by the fog that shrouded his pre-accident memories. None of the warmth came from precise memories, for obvious reasons, so rather than feeling like the warmth of the sun — intense and precise — the warmth he felt was similar to the warmth given by a familiar blanket worn thin from years of use. It enveloped him, soothed him, and warmed him more than such a thin blanket should have been capable of.

Just as he was settling into that warmth, the doors burst open and five people hurried into the room, pulling him back into the moment. While not cold, it certainly wasn't as warm as his happy place, but his little moment of meditation had done what it was supposed to. He was happy, relaxed, and ready to present. So it was with a genuine smile that he welcomed his guests and asked them to settle into their seats.

As they exchanged introductions, Roger made sure to focus on the color of each person's eyes as they told him their names. He had read somewhere that doing so forced you to focus on their introduction rather than worrying about botching your own, and he had learned through experience that it was true.

While the British accent of the woman he had bumped into had been a surprise to him earlier, that same accent wasn't a surprise this time. He was meeting with British military — national safety specialists, to be precise — from London, after all. He noted that while they shared many of the same tendencies that his company's American clients had in the way they introduced themselves, they had a weird giddiness about them that he had never seen before, like they were all in on some big secret that he wasn't a part of. That feeling was reinforced by the glances they kept shooting to each other out of the corners of their eyes. He had certainly never seen that before.

Once the formalities were through, Roger went right into his presentation. It went as smoothly as he could have possibly hoped for, as his audience had given him their undivided attention, and each of his jokes elicited laughs from the clients. By the end of it, he knew he had won them over. He had done it. He felt triumph and elation swelling his chest, and could already hear the boss-man's praise when he was given the good news.

As he wrapped up his presentation, though, he was met with a worrying sight. Rather than eager smiles on the faces of the clients, the five people seated at the table looked completely and utterly lost or disinterested.

As silence descended upon the room, Roger worriedly wondered if had been so engrossed in his presentation that he had lost them without realizing it. Had he skipped important information? Had he not covered everything? This was the first time this had ever happened to him, and he felt his hold on the situation began to weaken.

"So...any questions? Concerns?" he asked hesitantly. In terms of controlling the situation, his questions felt as useful as trying to catch running water barehanded. Dread and hopelessness began to seep into him, starting in the tips of his extremities and crawling towards his chest. While business was booming, this contract was vital — it was the groundwork for the future of the company, international expansion. It was why he had specifically been chosen for the meeting. He was the best they had. And even before they spoke, he knew he had failed. He could feel it in the still air of the room.

Then a voice sounded from the rear of the table. "Does the name 'Harry Potter' mean anything to you?"

The question was so unexpected and absurd that Roger forgot his disappointment in the midst of his confusion. His brow furrowed as he looked at who had spoken, the only woman in the group. That in itself was an oddity among the military crowd, but even odder was how obvious it was that she was the leader of the pack. Looking at the faces of the rest of the group made it clear that this was the moment everyone in the room had been waiting for.

The room became so silent that Roger was sure he could hear Debbie gossiping from the other corner of the floor they were on. While he was sure he had demanded their attention during the presentation, he was beginning to think that their interest had nothing to do with what he was selling. In fact, he was beginning to feel as though these five people had only flown all the way from England to America for the sole purpose of asking him this question, which seemed beyond silly.

"Helena Hawker, was it?" Roger asked, her name coming to him as he stalled for time, his mind racing. "What was the name again?"

He wasn't sure why they wanted to know if he knew this 'Harry Potter,' but he was sure that he had never heard the name before. He wondered if he could spin this to his advantage, though — maybe he could convince them to buy his company's product if he played his cards right. That was all that mattered to him, regardless of their agenda. But if he could figure out their agenda, he could then plan how to use it to his advantage.

He met the unfaltering gaze of Helena, who was watching him as his mind raced faster than it ever had before, wondering what game she was playing. She had eyes that were the color of caramel and cinnamon and chocolate all in one, and they held a warmth as strong and soothing as the flame of a cozy fireplace. The intelligence the warmth was masking shone through when she leaned forward intently, her eyes locked on his, the corners of her mouth pulling into a slight, knowing smile. She saw right through his ploy.

"Harry Potter."

Roger frowned as the name echoed in his head and reverberated through his chest as if he was a musical instrument and her words had strummed a powerful chord within him. A million memories suddenly whirled in his mind, clashing and meshing as he struggled to penetrate the ever-present fog for the thousandth time. He tried to grab hold of a memory and force it to reveal itself, but it was as futile as trying to hold smoke with one's bare hands, slipping away from him tauntingly to fade back into nothingness.

As he focused on Helena again, her head now cocked to one side inquisitively, he felt a headache begin to come on. The name 'Harry Potter' clung to his mind, the meaning of it just out of reach, similar to the feeling he sometimes had when he was so close to remembering the name of a movie or book. He tried to ignore it, but it lingered there, obviously intent on bothering him to no end.

Annoyed that a random woman who had come thousands of miles to _his_ meeting room had somehow gained the upper hand on him, he grudgingly said, "I've never heard that name before. Should I know it?"

Helena blinked twice. Roger wondered if that was a sign of surprise from the woman or a signal to the rest of the group. He figured it to be the latter, as he had a hard time believing that much of anything surprised this woman. He was sure from the look in her eyes that she had prepared for any number of answers to that question, hence why she was in charge of the group seated before him.

She reached into her pocket and fiddled with whatever lay inside it for a few seconds before pulling her hand back out and steepling her fingers in front of her, her eyes never leaving his. Her gaze was penetrating to the point that Roger was sure she was looking into his very soul to discern whether he was telling the truth. Roger didn't know what this 'Harry Potter' had done, but he had better be damn smart if he was going to stay out of the reach of Helena Hawker. It seemed a nearly impossible task, and Roger barely even knew the woman. The way Helena's jaw was set, reminding Roger of pictures in nature magazines of coiled predators waiting to strike, instilled a primal fear deep within him, and he wasn't even the man being hunted.

Roger cleared his throat to give his pounding heart a moment to calm itself. "May I ask why you're asking if know this man?"

Helena sighed, seeming suddenly defeated. The curiosity that had burned so intensely just moments ago faded to be replaced by sullen resignation. She smiled, but there was a tinge of sadness behind it and just a trace of hurt. Roger wondered if he had committed some sort of cardinal sin in the defense technology world by not knowing 'Harry Potter.' Maybe Helena wasn't searching for the man after all, but had been testing Roger's knowledge to see if he was worth doing business with. He thought he had researched the British defense industry thoroughly, but now he wished he had done even more research. He didn't want a lack of planning or effort on his part to cost his company this contract.

Helena cleared her throat, and Roger felt his stomach do nervous flips. "This contract is a large investment, and we appreciate your time and effort. Thank you so much for the informative presentation and proposal. I hope I'm not asking too much, but would you mind terribly if we took the night to discuss the proposal and make some calls to our higher-ups?"

Roger resisted the urge to release a relieved sigh, all thoughts of Harry Potter fleeing his mind. This contract wasn't a lost cause yet. "Please, take as much time as you need. I'll be eagerly awaiting your response tomorrow."

The group thanked him individually and gave him their business cards, and when it was Helena's turn, her hand lingered on her card as if she was going to pull it back. She looked into his eyes and said, "Don't go off and lose this or set it aside. I'm available at all hours, so if you think of anything you forgot to tell us, don't hesitate to call tonight."

Roger chuckled and made a show of taking out his wallet and inserting the business card, then tucking the wallet back into his pants, giving it a sturdy pat to show that her card wasn't going anywhere. This time when she smiled, it was a genuine, happy smile, and she thanked him.

Then the British military group was out of the room and Roger was alone. He finally let out that sigh of relief he had been holding, and fell back into the chair closest to him. He felt a bit disappointed that he wasn't able to seal the deal in the first meeting, and then was anxious on top of that about how the group would respond the next day.

He didn't look forward to spending the night worrying about their reply, and wondered what he could do to alleviate his nerves. He thought about calling Dick and seeing if there were any empty seats in their suite at the Rangers game, but quickly dismissed the thought. While he loved Dick, he knew that his pal would rib him relentlessly about being unable to close the deal. He was sure that hanging out with Dick would be anything but relaxing.

He also considered going out by himself, but knew that was also a bad idea. Unless he got absolutely plastered, he knew he would just stew in his thoughts all night, even if he was trying to have fun at a club or bar.

Which left just one option. Roger dug into his pocket and pulled out the small scrap of paper that the beautiful British woman had written her number on earlier that day. He scratched his head as he weighed the pros and cons of calling her, then decided that it was his best option to avoid worrying about the contract all night.

He flipped his phone open and dialed her number.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

"I can't say I expected to hear from you so soon, but I'm glad you called." The woman with the British accent had agreed to meet Roger for dinner without missing a beat. They had just been seated at an upscale French restaurant and were now perusing the menu. It was a pleasant place that was nice, but just not high-end enough to warrant a reservation days or weeks in advance. Roger knew first-hand that the caviar was to die for, and hoped that it was enough to impress such a beautiful and interesting woman. His stomach was doing nervous, happy flips.

Roger set his menu down — he had only been glancing over it as a formality, as he always ordered the same dish when he took dates to this restaurant. He cleared his throat to get the woman's attention and asked about what had been bothering him ever since he had spoken to her over the phone. "So...are you ever going to tell me your name or am I going to have to guess until I get it right?"

The corners of the woman's eyes — the only part of her face that Roger could see — crinkled as she smiled. "I doubt you could guess, and I suppose the wait's been long enough. In exchange for taking me out to a restaurant where the food hopefully tastes as good as it looks, I'll tell you my name." As she lowered her menu, her eyes flashed with a hint of teasing mixed with a dash of an emotion Roger couldn't quite pin down. It was the same look his fellow salesmen sometimes had when they were trying to strike a deal with an unprepared or ignorant client — almost like a look of superiority, but this time with a little extra something thrown in.

As her menu lowered, Roger caught sight of something dark on her inner forearm, a part of her body he hadn't yet seen until just now. It was a red tattoo that had faded like a vibrantly colored shirt that had been washed one too many times. Although it was faded, he could still make out the shape of a snake crawling out of the mouth of a skull. It was a bit sinister, but cool nonetheless.

As Roger stared at it, though, he felt a slight tingling at the nape of his neck. He knew he had seen that exact image before. He thought for a moment that he might have seen it on a television program or in a book, but he couldn't quite recall. He didn't have much time to let it bother him, however, because the woman finally spoke her name.

"Pansy Parkinson."

The name struck Roger like lightning crashing to the earth, and the thunderclap that followed echoed through his head, chest, and out to the rest of his body. He was physically paralyzed for a long moment as veiled memories raced through his mind in an untempered flurry for the second time that day. He felt as if he would split in two as he tried to make sense of it all, and he brought his hands up to his head to hold himself together for fear of falling apart.

"Oh, you've heard of me?" the woman asked, her voice taking on a playful tone.

Roger tried to collect himself as best he could, fighting against the current that threatened to sweep his mind away. He swallowed hard and reached out for his glass of water. His hand was trembling so powerfully that he almost spilled his drink as he brought it to his lips. He took in long, slow mouthfuls of water until he finished his entire glass, and only then did he finally set the glass down carefully. His hand still trembled, but not quite as intensely as before. He was regaining control, slowly but surely.

He cleared his throat and smiled apologetically, glad that whatever had torn through him at the sound of her name had just about passed. He wasn't entirely sure that it was her name that had brought about what had happened, but he figured it was too much of a coincidence that it had happened at that moment for it to have been caused by something else.

Then a thought occurred to him and he would have kicked himself if it was possible at that moment. He knew a woman as pretty as Pansy was out of his league, and yet he hadn't thought much of it when she had taken a liking to him and given him her number so easily. _Of course_ she had an ulterior motive. He had let her and her good looks lead him by the nose.

There was only one explanation for everything coming together in such a way that Roger could think of: Pansy Parkinson knew him from before the accident. She had set up a meeting with him, though it probably hadn't happened exactly as she had planned. She was probably heading to his office when he had bumped into her earlier that day, and he had made things even easier for her, seeing as she didn't have to think up an excuse to visit him in his office.

If Roger's theory was true, this brought up a whole host of other questions, such as whether Helena Hawker knew him as well. And if they both knew him, then had he spent a significant amount of time in England at some point?

There was too much to consider at the moment, so he focused on what — _who_ — was in front of him: Pansy Parkinson. Considering his suspicions were true, he only had one question for her:

 _If she knows who I am, why hasn't she just told me so?_

He could think of a dozen good reasons off the top of his head, none of which were good and all of which left Roger at a disadvantage in the situation at hand. She was clearly playing some sort of game, and he didn't know the rules, the objective, or how to play. She was in complete control of the situation, and based on the satisfaction that was blooming on her face, she knew it, and she knew that he knew it. She opened her mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by the waiter at that moment.

"Sir, Madame, may I please take your orders?"

Pansy broke her gaze with Roger's, but Roger continued to stare straight at her, wondering if there was a way to play this game in a way that resulted in his victory. All thoughts of wooing her or continuing the night past dinner went out the window; right now he needed to glean as much information as possible from her so that he might know the terms of the game. He needed to know if this was a life-or-death situation or something hopefully less serious, and quickly at that. Multiple people who knew him from before his accident finding him on the same day after three long years of waiting was not a good omen.

"Sir?"

Roger looked at the waiter and saw that the tall, lanky, red-headed man had a perplexed look on his face. It was a waiter Roger had never seen before — he must have been new. It took Roger a moment to realize that Pansy had taken the waiter's arrival in stride and had placed her order, so it was his turn. He simply choked out, "Caviar. Champagne."

"Certainly, sir," the man said with a slight bow before moving on to a table where a woman had a hand up. The speed at which he moved suggested he knew he had come at a bad time.

"Sorry, I spaced out for a second there," Roger said apologetically. "What did you end up ordering?"

Pansy smiled a real, genuine smile, which put Roger slightly at ease. Whatever she was pulling, she had no intentions of following through on it at that moment. His stomach only slightly squirmed with apprehension.

" _Mouclade Charentaise_ ," she said with a slight accent. "I have a weakness for mussels."

"I've never had it myself, but I've heard great things about it," Roger said. He wondered if the natural break in the conversation was a good time to start probing.

The waiter arrived with a fresh glass of water for him, so he took a sip to wet his lips. After setting the glass down, he asked, "So what do you do?" This question was the most direct way of working out how she knew him.

The corners of her mouth curled up ever so slightly. "I do a little bit of this and that. Recruiting. Logistics. Manual Labor. We hit a rough patch not too long ago...but I've always done my part."

Roger didn't let it show on his face, but he was annoyed. She had answered his question without telling him anything. He hated when people beat around the bush. "Are you in the defense industry too?"

This time Pansy full-on laughed, her slenders shoulders heaving with her chest. "Heavens no," she said. "I couldn't imagine something more ill-suited for my talents."

He had been trying to get her to tell him her exact line of work, but she apparently wasn't one to fall for something so obvious. Roger thought it best to change his line of questioning. "I remember earlier you said you had been the states for awhile now. Why is that?"

Pansy was no longer laughing, but retained a smug smile. She looked how Roger had always imagined an adult looked after taking candy from a baby. He had no leverage whatsoever. He was treading water that was much too deep and he could no longer see the shore, and there was nobody he could call out to for help. A bad feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach, clawing at his insides. This wasn't going to end well for him.

He wondered for a long moment if he should sneak away to the bathroom to text Dick for help, then internally cursed his friend for having such a penchant for alcohol. It would be sometime in the middle of the second period by now, so Dick had to be beyond plastered by now. He wouldn't be useful at all, and Roger didn't trust anybody else in his phone's contact list to keep this incident to his or herself. He didn't want word of his fear of a woman to spread around the office — he worked in a world of sharks who would eat up any sign of weakness they could find, and he had just been promoted, meaning he was already a target.

He would have to grin and bear it, and hope that he could somehow handle this situation here and now.

"I just came for an extended vacation," Pansy said, snapping Roger back to the moment. She wasn't doing much to conceal how blatantly she was lying. "I've wanted to visit New York since I was little."

The food and champagne arrived, and, sensing the awkward moment, the waiter made himself scarce as quickly as possible again, throwing a sympathetic glance Roger's way as he did so. Roger wished the waiter had a bit more spine and try to throw him a bone.

"I have an interesting proposal," Pansy said with her mouth full. It seemed she was beyond the stage that she had to worry about keeping him attracted to her. "How about you come back to London with me. There are people there who are just dying to meet you again."

Roger waited until he had swallowed his food to answer. "Interesting," he lied. "What's in it for me?"

Pansy pretended to mull it over for a second, but sounded just a bit too eager as she said, "I can tell you all about your past. I might even trigger your old memories into coming back."

All of Roger's suspicions were confirmed. Pansy did know him from before, and she was trying to use him and his lack of memory to her advantage. He was simply a pawn in the game she was playing. Every fiber in his body was screaming at him to stay as far from this woman as possible, and he didn't intend to ignore such an ominous sign no matter how badly he wanted his memories back. He didn't miss the irony of finally being given the opportunity to get all the answers he had been desperately been searching for over the course of the past three years only for the opportunity to present itself like this.

Suddenly, Roger heard a _thunk!_ He frowned as another followed, and he turned in his chair to see what was causing it. A man seated at the table behind him suddenly passed out, and when his head hit the table, it made the same sound he had just heard. More people began slumping, and there was a chorus of confusion, then a cacophony of heads hitting tables and bodies falling out of chairs, and then there was silence. It was just himself and Pansy who were still awake in the restaurant.

Roger turned back to Pansy to find her grinning sadistically. "There's only one answer to my question whether you like it or not." Her lips formed an 'O' in surprise as she suddenly thought of something. "I guess I can add 'kidnapper' to my job description, to flesh out my answer from earlier."

Roger swallowed hard, cringing as he heard the noise his throat made. "Did you kill them?" he asked evenly, trying to buy time. He had read a few murder-mysteries and detective thrillers in his days — he knew that as more time passed, the more likely it was that something or somebody came along to stop him from being abducted.

"Don't be silly," Pansy said as she fished a stick out of her pocket and pointed it at Roger's face menacingly. He wondered exactly what she was going to do with it. Did she plan to jab one of his eyes out or something? He made up his mind to try to overpower her when she attempted it. "The Muggles will meet their makers soon enough, but I can't raise the alarm just yet."

 _Muggles_? Roger thought to himself, wondering if the odd word was a British euphemism for 'Americans.' He opened his mouth to stall for more time, but Pansy suddenly swished her stick through the air and cried, " _Petrificus Totalus!"_

Roger arms and legs suddenly snapped together and he felt himself go stiff as a board, and the air was expelled from his lungs as he slipped out of his chair and hit the ground hard. He found that he couldn't move a muscle, and desperately tried to piece together how Pansy had done this to him. He had heard of paralytics before, but never of one that moved a person's arms and legs first, meaning she hadn't spiked his water or champagne. The only conclusion he could draw, as he desperately tried to get his body to respond to his commands, was that the stick, combined with her words, had paralyzed him.

It was _magic_.

He felt a now-familiar tingling at the nape of his neck at the realization, but he was much too frightened to pay the feeling any attention at the moment. He was about to be kidnapped by this woman, he didn't know what she was capable of, and he was now unable to fight back. He could only hope that the people she was bringing him to in London wouldn't kill him.

"You know, everyone back in England wants you returned alive. They guessed right about what had happened to you, and think they can manipulate you." Pansy kneeled down and stared into his eyes as he glared back at her, and she frowned as she lightly touched his nose with the stick she was holding. "But I can see it in your eyes. Even if you don't remember who you are, there's no changing that...how did that old geezer put it? Ah yes, there's no changing that _outstanding moral fiber_ of yours, now is there? How annoying." She contemplated a decision for a moment before her jaw set in a determined line and mischief danced in her eyes. "I think I'd rather see you dead. I'm sure we can manage without you."

As she stood and pointed the stick at him, Roger saw delight and ambition blazing in Pansy's eyes, her sadistic satisfaction distorting her beautiful face into outright crazed bloodlust. This woman was absolutely insane and she was revelling in it. Roger lamented that it was the last thing he would ever see, and felt a sharp pang of regret at having never learned about his past. He should have tried harder.

" _Avada—"_

" _EXPELLIARMUS!"_

A red light streaked through the air and hit Pansy. Her eyes widened as the stick she had been holding was ripped from her hand by an invisible force and arced through the air in the direction the red light had come from. Roger couldn't turn himself to see the source of the red light, but he was able to watch as Pansy's stick bounced off the ceiling and fell with a clatter onto a table a handful of feet away.

" _Stupefy!"_

Pansy ducked just in time to avoid a jet of blue light that whistled through the empty air almost too quickly for the naked eye to see. She swore and quickly crawled through the room on all fours towards her dropped stick, and several more _'Stupefy!'_ s were shouted by a familiar female voice, though Roger couldn't quite place it, and accompanying blue lights followed, dissipating as they struck the wall.

Roger heard a desperate _'Accio Wand!'_ instantly followed by a sharp _crack!_ There was a brief, heavy silence in which Roger frantically wondered what was going on around him, then that same familiar voice uttered a certain four-letter word. The woman sighed, then said _'Finite!'_

Roger felt a slight warmth as control of his body was returned to him, and he sucked in a sharp breath, only just noticing that his heart was racing like crazy. He had seriously almost died. It seemed to Roger that Pansy had either escaped or been dispatched, so he stood slowly, his legs trembling as they did their best to support his weight. His whole body was tingling a bit, which he hoped was just a side-effect of whatever had ended his paralysis.

It took Roger a moment to find his savior, as she was kneeling at the side of the tall, red-headed waiter that had taken his order earlier in the night, who was lying peacefully on the ground, clearly knocked out by whatever Pansy had done to the restaurant. Helena pointed a stick almost identical to Pansy's at the man and uttered, _"Ennervate!"_

The man shot upright and gasped for breath as if he had just been saved from drowning, looking around wildly as he tried to gain his bearings. "Wha? What? What the hell?"

"Calm down, Ronald," the woman said as she put a placating arm on his shoulder. "I told you to make sure you didn't drink or eat anything in the restaurant. You were knocked out by whatever Pansy laced the food or drink with." She was stern, but clearly unsurprised that her companion had ended up like the rest of the patrons and staff.

Ronald laughed, though his face turned crimson from embarrassment. "Well, it's a good thing both of us were here." Then something occurred to him and he desperately looked around the room until his eyes fell on Roger. "Oh, thank Merlin. You did it."

The woman turned around to look at Roger and he was surprised to find that it was none other than Helena Hawker who had come to his rescue. Her hair was done up in a ponytail and her face was flushed from the exertion of the short battle she had fought with Pansy. She still had that aura of wit and confidence he had felt earlier, but this time there was a relieved smile on her face.

"You think I'd let Harry down after all these years?" she asked teasingly as she winked at Roger. By 'Harry' she might have been referring to her boss or whoever had sent her out to find him, but Roger knew deep down that he was Harry. _Harry Potter_ , he thought to himself, thinking back to the meeting with Helena's group earlier in the day. The nape of his neck tingled pleasantly, as if agreeing with his choice of name.

Ronald barked a laugh. "No, but you did use the poor, lost man as bait," he said jovially.

Helena flushed tomato-red, but said, "Well, it almost worked." She hurried to Roger — _Harry_ , he reminded himself (it was a lot to take in all at once) — and grabbed his arm, then she beckoned to Ronald to join them. "Sorry about all that," she said to Harry. "You know how I...well, I guess you don't know anything."

Harry gave Helena a dismissive wave, and as Ronald grabbed her arm, she made to turn on the spot. Harry wondered if they were going to walk arm-in-arm down the streets of New York together. It was certainly an awkward pose to be in, with their arms interlocked. Harry hoped none of his coworkers saw them.

Ronald interrupted, though. "Wait, what about that stupid snake, Pansy?"

Helena clicked her tongue in annoyance. "She got away."

Ronald sniffed, but didn't say anything. Helena made to turn on the spot again, but this time Harry interrupted, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Is your real name Helena?" he asked, the question tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop it. Even though she had just saved him, Harry didn't want to be duped twice in one day, even if his gut wasn't screaming at him about these two like it had been about Pansy. This was a good question to gauge how trustworthy Helena was.

Helena stopped and looked at him, her eyes searching his for...something. She gave up after a moment, a forlorn look on her face, and said, "I didn't want to beat you over the head with old names earlier. Sorry for lying to you." She bit her lip for a moment, clearly gather her courage, then smiled said, "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."

This time Harry felt as though he really did split in two, and darkness swallowed him whole.

 **A/N: I'll post when I can, but no promises outside of at least one more chapter before the end of the year. Story's gonna be long and wild — hope y'all are strapped in with me.**


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